


like magic

by enoughtotemptme



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Best Friends, F/M, Flash Fic, Friends to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-25
Updated: 2016-02-25
Packaged: 2018-05-23 05:47:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6106897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enoughtotemptme/pseuds/enoughtotemptme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy doesn’t realize he’s in love with Clarke Griffin for an embarrassingly long time.</p>
<p>(Written for Bellarke Fanfiction's February Flash Fic; prompt: hands.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	like magic

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Bellarke Fanfiction's February Flash Fic; prompt: hands. All entries had to be between 200 and 500 words (AO3's word counter likes to argue with Google, I guess). :)

Bellamy doesn’t realize he’s in love with Clarke Griffin for an embarrassingly long time.

How was he supposed to know? He’s known her forever, basically, ever since she came over for a sleepover with Octavia when she was nine. She’d insisted on painting his fingernails purple while she waited for Octavia to finish showering.

It’s not exactly his  _fault_  that he doesn’t realize when he falls in love with her.

(Right?)

But once he realizes, it’s a whole new world of terror and agony.

“Stay  _still_ , Bellamy,” Clarke says, exasperated. She’d barged into his apartment—with her own key,  _shit_ , he’d never even given Gina a key, and they’d been together for a year—and told him she’d needed him to model for an assignment due later that week. She’s nearly done with her MFA.

“I can’t,” he says, defensive. His hands clench.

She huffs, dropping the charcoal and reaching across the table. She’d positioned his hands just so, aiming a desk lamp at them until the lighting was just right, the shadows just as she wanted them.

Her fingers leave smears of dark charcoal on his skin, shimmering. It looks like magic. It feels like magic.

It feels like  _Clarke_.

Bellamy pulls his hands away, into his lap. Clears his throat. “I, uh. I have grading to do.”

Clarke stares. “What?”

“You should—you should probably go.” Before he does something monumentally stupid, like take her hand, or kiss her, or tell her he’s hopelessly in love with her and he doesn’t even know when it started.

God, he taught her how to drive. He helped her move into her dorm; he picked her up from the first club she got into with her fake ID when she called him, drunk, and put her to bed after she finished being sick.

He’s always loved her. But he shouldn’t be  _in_   _love_  with her, and he definitely shouldn’t tell her.

Clarke looks hurt.

God. He hates himself.

“Clarke—” Bellamy doesn’t know what he’s about to say.

“No.”

He blinks. She glowers.

“Uh—”

“No,” she repeats, sharper. “I’m not going to leave. You haven’t texted me in, what, a month? You’ve been avoiding me. Now you’re telling me you have grading but I  _know_  it’s the high school’s spring break, Bellamy.”

“Well—”

“What did I do wrong?”

“What? Nothing!” he panics. “You’re—it’s me, not you.”

(What a  _stupid_ —)

She ignores that. “Have I made you uncomfortable?”

“Uncomfortable?”

She fidgets. “I—I know I’m probably not subtle. But I thought we could still be friends, even if you don’t feel the same. You’re my best friend.”

“You’re my best friend, too,” he says, automatic. But— “Subtle about what?”

Her eyes close. “Don’t.”

“Clarke.”

She sighs. “I’m in love with you. It’s so cliche—fall in love with your friend’s brother, or with your best friend, or all of the above, but I  _did_ , and I’m sorry—”

He reaches for her, slides his hand into her hair, and kisses her. She feels like magic.

She feels like Clarke.


End file.
